


Aquamarine

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Ficlets [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - geisha!lock, Bonus Material, Jewel in the Tower 'verse, M/M, Rare Pairings, Sheriarty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-15 00:17:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5764495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and (Bad) Jim, long before the events of my story The Jewel in the Tower.</p><p>Based on the tumblr prompt: Fan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aquamarine

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Jewel in the Tower](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4083121) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander). 



“It’s nothing like what I want it to be.” Sherlock twisted a hip toward the mirror, shoulder away, neck cranked back to try to see down his own spine. He extended one leg back, slowly, sliding his foot along the floor; it skittered over some patch of sticky something so he reflexively bunched silk in one fist and tugged the hem up and out of danger. “This is grotesque; what am I doing?”

Jim was sprawled in that way he had--many men had, but with significantly less surety, less swagger--on a wooden folding chair beside the silvered mirror in its long, heavy frame, one leg replaced by a stack of hardcover books Sherlock hadn’t gotten around to returning to the university library before he’d stopped attending his classes, before he’d nodded out in the doorway of the chemistry lab one early Sunday evening and hadn’t been chased off until Monday morning. Jim smoked, despite Sherlock’s scold that he’d stink up the gown--the whole room, all the expensive fabric and notions they’d pooled their curr to acquire in lieu of a wedding.

“I think it’s nice,” Jim offered, and it sounded genuine. Of course, he was not the most reliable critic, biased as he was toward praising Sherlock’s looks, creativity, skill. Sherlock turned to face the mirror head-on. “The colour suits you,” Jim added, and gestured with the cigarette between his knuckles until Sherlock waved angrily at him and he dropped his hand limply by his side, dangling between the chair’s seat and the floor. “And once you do the face, and the wig. . .” He nodded, half-smiled. “It’s nice.”

Sherlock worried his lower lip between thumb and fingers, eyes narrowed. The gown he’d envisioned was the magical ripple of aquamarine gems, the way their facets shimmered every shade of blue between clear-day-sky and late-afternoon-sea. The fabric took the dye in a different way than he’d anticipated, more blocked than gradient, and he’d improvised iridescent metal inclusions by drawing craggy veins of silver with a paint pen. The hem was massive--a four-yard, nearly full circle--and had given him fits, rolling and raveling under his fingers as he squinted at it, stabbing his fingers with the needle, the thread running out, running out, running out and his eyes aching as he tried to find the light with which to see the tiny eye to feed a fresh strand through.

“It was so much better in my head,” he sighed, and shook his head. Jim leaned across himself to jab out his cigarette in a green glass ashtray on the edge of Sherlock’s cutting/sewing/make-up table.

“You’re too hard on yourself,” Jim said, and Sherlock kept staring into the mirror, shifting the gown’s skirt, tucking and folding to hide the worst bits, trying to think of a way to save it. Jim’s arms went around him, standing now at his side, his little pooch of belly rising and falling against the top of Sherlock’s hip, hands clasped together in the bend of Sherlock’s opposite elbow. “If it were perfect you’d have no reason to go on trying.”

Sherlock gusted out a half-laugh, tilted his face. Jim took the hint and kissed his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “It’s so very far from perfect,” he protested, but he was feeling kinder toward himself. “I don’t know,” he allowed. “Maybe if I cut it slimmer. Or an organza overlay to. . .” he scrubbed the drape of the sleeve between his fingertips, “blur the edges.”

Jim moved in front of him, wound arms around his waist, nuzzled in along the plunging neckline, dug in with his nose and chin and lips. “It’s all amazing,” he said. “You’re brilliant.” He’d managed to slip the gown down off Sherlock’s shoulder, helped along by Sherlock’s having untied the sash at his waist, loosening the wrap. “I’m your fan; I think everything you do is magic.” He nudged down into the hollow of Sherlock’s underarm, sniffed, blew, laughed at himself. “ _Shee-uh_ ,” he tried.

Sherlock shivered and smiled and his body twisted momentarily in response to being tickled. “ _Xie_ ,” Sherlock corrected gently. Jim’s hands slid inside the silk, there at his waist, and the gown fell like flowing water down the length of Sherlock’s arms, down his back, down his legs into a puddle around their feet.

“Zhee-ahhhhh. . .” he overpronounced. “Just look at what you’re making, sweetheart. You’re an artist,” Jim kissed his way across the collarbones, shoulder to shoulder, and tucked down into the other tuft of hair, both of them giggling, both of them catching breath as the heat between them bloomed, like it always did: a hot shiver, a blissful sensation of contentment that felt very familiar to Sherlock, that he craved, that made the insides of his elbows itch until he forgot it all in a rush of panting breath and sure hands and all those half-swallowed, burbly-accented syllables praising him, calling him beautiful, pulling his hair and pinching the inside of his thigh in a way no one else would ever be allowed close enough to even try.

 


End file.
